


The real thing

by hyrkanianqueen



Category: No. 6 - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-13 21:27:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5717704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyrkanianqueen/pseuds/hyrkanianqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How exactly Nezumi got all that gold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The real thing

**Author's Note:**

> I love these two nerds, and all fics about them, Nezumi especially, and on a whim I started writing this after rereading the part of the novel where Nezumi just throws down a big bag of gold he had apparently been squirreling away for a Chronos wedding or something. First-ever fic so I am wildly unsure of what I am doing. Please tell me if there's anything I can do to be a better fic citizen.
> 
> I think this has a second chapter; still fiddling with it. Thanks for reading.

In the mirror, Nezumi parted his lips a little, brushing on powder and blush, darkening his inner lids with eyeliner. Forget Shion's glamorous notions of the gleaming stage and booming orchestra--most of Nezumi's work was done in this back-alley changing room, in front of the mascara-flecked mirror of the vanity, its burnt-out makeup lights, its peeling paint. He could give Shion the backstage tour; how quickly that innocent wonder would crumble. _Have a seat! Here is a sweaty sofa with the stuffing coming out; mind the wobbling foot. Have some water from the cloudy glass on that junkyard table. I am the lady Eve; I welcome you. Have a look at my wardrobe--vintage! Have a sniff._

His lips curled up thinking about it, so he painted them, coral pink. If Nezumi was honest, it was the image of delight going out of those too-wide eyes that made him insist Shion never visit him where he worked. There was still one great lie Shion believed to sustain himself in a friendless place, and that was that however hard life in West Block got, it was at least honest and free, beautiful in its truth. With his mama out of reach and his new-found knowledge of how far No. 6 would go to cover its lies, it was no wonder Shion clung to romantic notions of Nezumi living out his acting dreams, Nezumi bringing high culture to the masses. Might as well let the kid believe in something.

He had promised not to call him a kid anymore.

For twenty minutes all knocking, shouting, pleading at his door had gone completely unanswered, until at last his manager barged his way in. (As if the door had ever had a lock.) Nezumi adjusted Eve's shaper to cover the scar on his back, zipped the back of her dress as far as he could reach.

"What on earth is taking so long?" the manager demanded.

"Anticipation, my dear patron," said Nezumi, tweezing a stray hair from his eyebrow. "I'll work overtime, but it'll be on my own schedule."

The man reeled. Looked a little like a bowling pin about to go down. "This is handsome pay, Eve," he sputtered. "You won't find its equal everywhere in West Block. I can put you back where I found you; it would not be hard!"

Lucky for him, the manager was too weak-willed a man to make good on the threat, and luckily again, it was not out of Eve's character to keep admirers waiting. Nezumi combed his fingers through Eve's extensions, idly popped his lips.

"Just get on with it," the manager pleaded. "I'll give you your cut in advance."

Nezumi held out a hand expectantly. Into it his manager sank a fist-sized leather bag. Weighty. Gold. Too much, thought Nezumi, alarm jolting through him like an electric shock. But it never did to argue with money. Having it was always better than not, especially when one had a moocher at home, and one used to eating. He hefted the bag lightly. He stuffed it inside the vanity's drawer.

"Finally." The manager mopped sweat from his forehead. "Behave yourself this time."

"Insults. Eve is a perfect peach."

"Three minutes? You'll be ready?"

"Of course," Nezumi said softly, and smiled at him in the mirror, the gentle and close-lipped one, and here was Eve, taking stage for the evening. "Before you go--" Rising from the chair, dress falling open, back exposed halfway down. He held up his hair. "Zip me the rest of the way?"

Seeing the flush creep up his manager's face, a scornful laugh rose in him--one that Eve's propriety stopped. Eve had to maintain decorum, had to be gentle with men's reactions.

"You're kind," said Eve when it was done, and gave a generous smile.

His manager murmured some kind of response and fumbled with the doorknob on his way out, zipper fingers shaking.

And now, left to himself, Nezumi could think of nothing again, could put up the wall between himself and the job. There was more than a bit of himself on stage, of course. It would be a lie to say he didn't spend effort memorizing his lines, practicing his readings, thinking about which gesture and which posture and which intonation would deliver the best performance. The truth was, nothing much else about the world had reached him the way books had. There was nothing else he would let himself feel that kind of debt toward.

Except.

His jacket, gone grey from the persistent dry wind of West Block in winter, lay on the lounge where he had tossed it; now he lifted it, checked the pocket, grasped the thin strip of paper between two fingers a moment, the shaky handwriting memorized as much as what it said.

**_Safu taken by the Security Bureau. Help._ **

The message was here, with him, secret, and as long as he kept it that way, Shion would not have a chance to do anything stupid. Let him go back to No. 6 in spring, or summer, after disaster struck the holy city, after he had abandoned his pretty notions of making a serum, of a third option. Let the righteous plague purge the wicked a bit, and when it was over, Shion could go back to find his mama and his poor, obsessed girlfriend right where he left them; no one would have to know how the rescue happened, and they could all forget together. It was what citizens of No. 6 did.

It wasn't like Shion to forget.

It wasn't like Nezumi to plan for a best case scenario.

Nezumi buried the message back in the pocket and tucked his jacket underneath the sofa. For now, there was a job to do. An easy, effortless performance, and he could go home.

And why was it that "home" now in his mind had color and smells, was now a lantern burning brightly, some bookshelves well organized, a pot of soup already hot?

His manager knocked at the door. "Eve," he said, "are you decent? We're coming in." His voice still a bit shy--Nezumi let it flatter him. His manager escorted in a tall man with a thin, slack face, combed-back blond hair, and an uneasy gait. "Eve, this is Mr. Hayn. He works in climatology in--"

"No details, please," said Hayn, visibly agitated. "I'm simply a fan."

But that was information enough. _Thank you, Mr. Manager_ , thought Nezumi. He was from No. 6. His being here was a secret. Discretion was reason enough for paying over the going rate. Not knowing any better was a close second.

Eve rose, extended a hand and assumed a muted smile. "It's always a pleasure to meet a fan."

Hayn held the handshake tightly and too long. "Really--I'm honored. You gave a commanding performance tonight."

Ever so slightly the smile bloomed, and Eve nodded, accepting the compliment.

"I'll leave you two," said the manager, mouthing "Behave," and the door closed behind him.

Withdrawing, politely, from Hayn's grasp, Eve moved over to the lounge, casting a momentary glance behind. Just like that, Hayn followed. Never touch, look, or speak more than needed--this was another of Eve's tricks. She leaned back on the armrest, legs tucked up prettily under her dress to make room. "What draws a busy man like you out to our little theater, Mr. Hayn?" she asked.

Hayn took his seat beside her. "I come to all your shows," he said. "I wager I've seen you in every role."

"Really," said Eve, eyes smiling, eyes knowing. "You must be a lover of the arts, then."

"I'm attracted to you. I'd like to show you a good time."

It took serious restraint for Nezumi not to guffaw. Was there no one in No. 6 who understood the art--no, the human decency--of being subtle? Maybe this was what they all were like--emotionally stunted lab rats, inexperienced, unembarrassable. It was just too pathetic.

"I hope you will indulge me," said Hayn, removing his coat, eyes glued to Eve's. "I have certain tastes. I paid additional."

There it was again, the hot warning flash that kept Nezumi alive, that told him when it was time to fight or to run. A constant companion that was almost always right. But his manager was not a fool; Eve was no good to him bloodied or black-eyed. Customers were screened. They were read a rather rigorous list of ground rules. Besides, this was a man chained to a desk manufacturing perfect weather patterns for a perfect city. "Certain tastes"--he liked spanking or biting or feet. Eve could accommodate.

And a thing Nezumi liked about Eve was how easy it was to let her do the acting.

Easing back on the sofa, Eve nudged her sleeves down over her shoulders, exposing collarbone, the illusion of cleavage. "Come then," she said.

Hayn did as she bid him.

Lying back, Eve accepted his hands on her waist, his warm loose weight, his fusty cologne, mind moving through enticements like a checklist--draw the skirt slow up the leg, stroke the chest through his shirt, thoughtless, automatic, foolproof. Letting it build, then taking it away, then asking, with her eyes, for more. Then, at the right moment, and this was what usually got the uptight ones going really good, Eve let out a pretty, stifled moan.

"I'll stop you there," said Hayn, his fingers flat along Nezumi's jaw.

Nezumi stopped breathing. His mind racing--an easy reach to his jacket, to his knife.

"This isn't what I want."

_Spoiled_ , thought Nezumi. The man's self-command, his air of entitlement, his total absence of arousal grated.

"We're alone here," Eve murmured, heavy-lidded. "You can tell me anything."

"I told you," said Hayn. "I've seen you in every role. I think you can do better."

Nezumi shifted, angry, fighting a warning glare, trying to keep the urge to say something cutting in check. Getting angry would only make it take longer, would put him home even later. Angry double now because it shouldn't matter how long he took; he didn't owe Shion his time either, didn't owe the little prince his presence at dinner. Angry because he couldn't shake the idea that in his absence another message would come, that Inukashi would spill the details, that Shion would find out, would do something idiotic. That he wouldn't be there when Nezumi got back.

Eve preferred to keep some dignity about the whole thing, but she knew how speed things up if needed. "I understand," she said. Lifting her chin queenlike, she put her hand on his chest, eased him down onto the sofa, climbing atop him, straddling his lap. "I'll give you something special," she whispered, lips brushing his ear, grinding down insistent--slow, climbing friction. She clenched his shirt at the collar, moved in for the kiss, starting shy, quickly deepening, and her kisses had never not worked; at this she was very, very, very practiced.

Hayn broke the contact, shook his head.

Nezumi sat up, stiff, like a cornered cat.

"I've watched you," Hayn said. "I know you. Your other fans may salivate for this, but I see who you really are. This voice, this beauty, this power over others. Eyes like I haven't seen. Like you're from somewhere else." He reached around for the zipper of Eve's dress, drew it slowly down. "I want it. Something no one's ever had from you before. So. What is your name?"

Nezumi snaked his hand back to still Hayn's, swallowed back his ire. "You should call me Eve," he said.

Hayn gave him a dry, impatient smile. "The real one, kid. Eve is your whore's name. I'm paying," he said, planting hard kisses up Nezumi's jaw, to the ear, "for the urchin boy that makes her sing."

Nezumi gritted his teeth. He would return the money, then. Forget this creepy bastard with his humiliating demands. There was nothing, nothing in Eve's repertoire to prepare him for this. There was nothing in Nezumi's either.

Nothing but a flash in his mind, a memory of Shion's face when he stumbled upon his third option, when, with his little-kid sparkle and his scientist mind, he said they could eliminate everything separating the people of West Block from the people of No. 6. Take down the wall, and Shion could live in No. 6 and West Block at the same time, could live with his mama and with the girl and, somehow, also, with Nezumi--could still live that true, authentic life, like Nezumi, within the safety net of No. 6. And the hope, however brief, that flared in Nezumi's chest when he heard the unheard-of plan, and the inexplicable pang when he realized that Shion's determination to stay in West Block, with him, had already crumbled--so much for the kid's naive, so-called attraction--so that the only response he could find to match the flurry of his thoughts was laughter.

How thrilled Shion had looked, when he thought he might not have to choose.

Option 1, Throw the message away, and do nothing. Option 2, Tell Shion, and let him do what he will do. Option 3.

Option 3 would take money.

Nezumi sank back into the sofa cushion. _Shion, No. 6 is never satisfied until it finds a way to get everything it wants. You can't deny where you're from._

_Living here takes lying. Shion, this is what I am._

"I understand," Nezumi said to Hayn, in his normal register, with a menacing sort of confidence. "You don't want to pretend." Away fell the 10 inches of hair extensions; off came the ruffled garter belt, the sheer nylons that hid lean calves and dark leg hair. Up crept the skirt of the dress, the stage-dirtied hem, revealing the narrow thighs, the straight, flat hips. Off came the dress lifted entirely, the shaper too, the greater part of his skin bared to the tired upholstery, to Hayn's roving eyes. "Nezumi," he answered. "My name."

"Nezumi," Hayn repeated, syllables clipped, lips curdling like the name was filthy, as if he were looking at the real thing, idly plotting its extermination.

"You want the reality," and Nezumi swept a hand over the bulge in Eve's blue ribboned panty, eyes molten. He slid the elastic down, down, exposing everything, not stopping there--"You're right, you know"--the panty dangling on his foot, the foot suspended on Hayn's shoulder, Nezumi smirking, lifting his hips, daring him to take in the sight. "I'd rather have it this way."

Down to the floor on his knees went Hayn, taking Nezumi into his mouth, fingers digging into the scar on Nezumi's back, Nezumi wincing. "Nezumi," Hayn said again, coarser even than before, devouring him, too hard, too insistent, "Nezumi," and he heard the echo in his head--Shion's voice, of all people, of all times, saying his name with his soft cadence, saying it too often, as if there was anyone else in the room; too reverent, as if it was the real thing, the only name that mattered. Hayn grabbed his hips to hold him down, Nezumi playing rough right back, clenching the back of the man's white collar, feigning pure carelessness and total command, and this role, Nezumi realized, eyes shut tight, breath broken, could be easy too.


End file.
